


like the back of my hand

by TheBrokaryotes



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Body Worship, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Loyalty, M/M, Metaphors, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tumblr Prompt, god will strike me down for my sins someday, if i keep using His imagery to write gay shit, so many metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrokaryotes/pseuds/TheBrokaryotes
Summary: It is knowing when to speak and when to listen, when to hold fast and when to let be. It is quiet shared in the dark with naught but a flickering light between them, no words spoken aloud but a lifetime of tragedy playing over in their heads in perfect simultaneity. It is laughter, caught and thrown like a ball at play in a volley of jovial jests. It is the finishing of sentences. It is the words left to wander off into silence.And sometimes, it’s a touch.
Relationships: Finan & Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Finan/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29
Collections: The Last Kingdom Fanfic Fest





	like the back of my hand

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for The Last Kingdom Fanfic Fest Round 1, for Pairing prompt 21: "Finan/Uhtred, they know each other like the back of their hands."
> 
> i banged this out in a half hour bc my hands were possessed by a metaphor-horny demon, so enjoy! (also it's my first time writing finan so pls don't kill me)

It’s not just on the battlefield, though in the years spent at one another’s side, fighting has no longer become a simple action for Finan and Uhtred. It is a synchrony, a dance, the rawest expression of loyalty they are capable of giving one another. It is the silent, screaming vow of never straying, of choosing the path they walk along not because it is easy, but because they are on it together. For Finan, it is never needing to look over his shoulder, because he knows who stands behind him, and he knows whose back he feels pressed against his own.

But it is more than that; it is everything in between those moments of blinding adrenaline and bloodlust. It’s the long days of travel, the tired looks and easy smiles, the catching of thrown weapons without a glance to see the aim, the handing off of a flask just as the other grows thirsty. It is knowing when to speak and when to listen, when to hold fast and when to let be. It is quiet shared in the dark with naught but a flickering light between them, no words spoken aloud but a lifetime of tragedy playing over in their heads in perfect simultaneity. It is laughter, caught and thrown like a ball at play in a volley of jovial jests. It is the finishing of sentences. It is the words left to wander off into silence.

And sometimes, it’s a touch; a trail of the fingertips across ride-worn breeches, a soft bump of shoulders when one of them leans in to find solace in a loyal embrace, although the fire casting amber glows upon their skin would do well enough to keep them warm. It’s a press of lips, to cheek or mouth in kind, followed quickly by roaming hands over leather straps.

Uhtred, he uses his words—the press of his forehead against Finan’s jaw, murmuring praise and promise into the bite-darkened skin of his collar while Finan pants into his ear. His voice is a siren song, and he, the Lorelei drawing Finan to the cliffside where he would gladly drown beneath the choppy depths of the Rhine, if only to glimpse the face of such perfection. When Finan is at his peak, it is Uhtred’s sweet encouragement that takes his hand and brings him to the edge, only for him to leap without fear. And when the waters calm, he is the lullaby gathering Finan in his arms and plucking his mind from his body to the stars, to rest inside the curve of the crescent moon smiling down from its inky perch.

Finan lets his body speak for him. Being Irish, it tends to shout.

Uhtred can keep his rallying tongue, can let his silken words weave round his kiss-bruised lips all he likes—when it’s just the two of them, Finan is pleased to let him do the talking while he puts his mouth to better use. Sometimes it’s a private peck behind the tent when they wake up in the morning, dismantling camp and giggling where they think the others cannot hear. Often it’s a desperate union, the first thing Finan’s mind will let him do when he spots Uhtred blood-soaked and wide-eyed, chest heaving as the wind of battle leaves him. Those ones are rough, lined with teeth and misfired to land amidst the iron taste of blood let run down cheeks. They are the loudest Finan gets without saying a word, and he knows—he  _ knows _ Uhtred hears every last syllable.

But his favorite way to speak, his favorite reassurance to his Lord that they are one, bound in blood and sorrow and victory, the skin on each other's bruised knuckles calloused by decades of hardship and committed to memory, is on his knees.

It’s a little like worship, though Finan gets the feeling that a priest might string him up for idolatry if he could bear witness. Uhtred’s fingers card through Finan’s hair like anointing oil, trickling down smooth and heavy. He would bristle should Finan tell him how much his mutterings sound like the Lord’s prayer, and so Finan contents himself with smirking around the scarred skin of Uhtred’s abdomen, letting his tongue trace old wounds with reverent attention. Finan’s thumbs draw shapes and signs into Uhtred’s hips, leaving ghosts behind when they move to clasp around his thighs and hook one or both over his broad shoulders. 

Uhtred arches like a cresting wave, and Finan meets him at the shoreline with a steady foothold in the cool sand. He rides the choppy waters with honor, waiting for the storm to break and the sight of the auburn sky to draw him home again. Uhtred fights the way he fights in battle, swift and impossible to pin, nothing but Finan’s sure weight and ministrations to mollify him, to keep the threat of swords and Val Halla at bay. His fingers move to Finan’s nape, running over his sunkissed collar and tracing the freckles high up on his back, and they tense when Finan’s tongue curls. The Irishman wonders which constellations Uhtred sees in him.

When Finan’s mouth has said all it can, right around when Uhtred’s has begun to beg, Finan lets his hands take over, lets them burn and heal and worship like he would the cross still dangling from his neck. His fingers sing songs where they run along the fringe of Uhtred’s skin, his hips joining in the chorus as they settle where Uhtred’s legs part. Finan always forgets the melody when they begin to move as one, and that’s when Uhtred chimes in to harmonize, to hum sweet praise and moan honeyed ecstasy until Finan can carry a tune again.

It’s easy when it’s just them, when it's the same rhapsody they’ve played for one another time and time again, filled to bursting with endearment and dogged loyalty. Finan knows it by muscle memory now, every twitch and rut and grazing touch that send Uhtred’s ankles digging into the small of his back, his brows pinching at the middle and lashes fluttering over dewed skin. It’s a feast for the body and soul, for the eyes and the heart, and if Finan could find a way to bottle it, to grow drunk on it night after night, by God, he would. Not the sweetest, headiest wine would ever compare.

They reach their highest note together, and for once, Finan falls silent to enjoy the fountaining keen of his Lord, lapping it up with a swipe of his tongue over his lips as they fall apart and reassemble, breathless and awash in Heaven’s basking light. Uhtred’s words are as gentle as Finan’s touch when they twine together, as they succor one another with fond gazes and private laughter. They drift in unison, Uhtred’s chin tucked over Finan’s head, lazy kisses floating like flower petals down a river on his crown.

It’s not something he could find anywhere else but in the perfect comfort of Uhtred’s pleasant company. It’s the space between their fingers where, when slotted, fit one another perfectly. It’s the slow breathing matched in rhythm and the soft rumbles of sleep talk echoed back and forth between them as they lie entangled, draped in furs and fellow feeling. It’s home.

It’s love.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway uhhhhhhhhhhhh i love? them? bye


End file.
